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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104318">Whole</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow'>anomieow</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Terror (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Choking, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Rough Oral Sex, Slapping, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:01:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,098</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26104318</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Stanley is a secretive man but Charles Des Voeux knows what he needs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Dr Stephen S. Stanley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Whole</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><i>Clean off.</i> That’s what Dr. Stephen Samuel Stanley is thinking as he stares up into the face of one Charles Des Voeux, mate. That he could bite his cock clean off. At the beginning he’d do it, right after Des Voeux feeds it, still soft, into his waiting mouth. That triumphant, leering grin as he taps and drags it across Stanley’s cheeks and chin and lips merely because it amuses him to do so. Repulsive little bastard. Childish, too. Filthy, stupid. He’d have it coming. Even if he didn’t sever it, Stanley’s certain, he could at least render it useless—a protuberance of scar tissue, knotted-up and soft as a ragdoll’s belly. But then who’d make him feel like this? He shifts his weight back a little, trying to relieve some of the pressure of the seam of his trousers cutting into the underside of his own fattened prick. </p><p>Des Voeux grins down at him in that repugnant way of his, a sort of contemptuous curling-up of the lips from small, yellowish teeth. “You know, doctor,” he says, “I’ve had a most brilliant idea.” Gripping Stanley by his fine blond hair, he shoves himself in to the hilt. Stanley’s nose is buried in the younger man’s coarse pubic hair, which smells of old sweat and, faintly, urine. He gags; Mr. Des Voeux tightens his grip. A punishing little twist of his fist in his hair, a grind against his pinned-open mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to know what that idea is?” </p><p>Stanley does nothing, says nothing. He only darts his cold gray gaze upward, sharp as cut glass. Mr. Des Voeux withdraws his cock and levers Stanley’s jaw back. “I asked you a question.”</p><p>“Yes,” he says in a stiff, frigid voice. “I would like to know what your <i>brilliant</i> idea is.” He is, he is proud to say, never genial with Des Voeux; nor does he beg. He maintains his boundaries. Just as he is to Des Voeux an accessible, warm hole, Des Voeux is his mouth filled, his throat plundered. It is best to be a reductionist about these things when one is on one’s knees. Des Voeux is a hard prick attached to a dirty mouth, nothing more: an arrogant, awkwardly-formed boy with chapped cheeks, a sharp tongue, and an absurdly proportioned face. </p><p>“The way I figure it, doctor,” (in this last word he hides a snigger), “no one sucks cock the way you do but for the love of it.” He strokes his cheek in a sneering parody of affection. “I say we should avail you of every opportunity. Have Weekes make you a nice little hole. Sand off the splinters, of course.” As he speaks, he picks up rhythm again: in deep, out slow. In deep, out slow. Each time he thrusts past Stanley’s soft palate, Stanley contracts his throat like he knows Des Voeux likes. He can’t control the rhythm or how deep he goes, but he can make it feel goddamned divine. Look at how Des Voeux opens his little mouth, how his lids flicker and his breath picks up. Des Voeux halts, curses. He’d nearly spent just now, unprepared for it. </p><p>He pulls out completely, leaving a thread of saliva to dangle between his gleaming glans and Stanley’s parted lips. Breaks this thread with a swift, stinging smack across the cheek. “I swear to God,” Des Voeux snarls, “if you bring me off before I’m ready—but even that, for example,” he continues. “It’s selfish of me to keep a hole like that to myself.” His other hand joins the first on the back of Stanley’s head. It feels good, natural: his shame is still shame but it turns molten and gleaming in his blood. Renders him pliant, open. <i>A hole.</i> That’s all you are, once you’ve let someone like Mr. Des Voeux have you. And then you’re free. </p><p>“You’d just sit on your knees, waiting,” Mr. Des. Voeux is saying. “Take whatever comes through that hole in the wall.” He begins to snap his hips a little quicker, a little less rhythmically. “Be on your knees—til they’re raw, all bloodied and splintered. Every man aboard this ship’d fuck your face. You’d swallow so much spend you’d be sick on it. Ha, doctor!” He spits the word out like it tastes bad. “You’re no more a doctor than I am a king.”</p><p>But the lantern in the doorway of Stanley’s berth backlights Mr. Des Voeux’s head like a tarnished crown—a carnival king he is, little lord of a topsy-turvy kingdom, and Stanley the jester at his feet. He tilts his head in a test of Mr. Des Voeux’s grip and is rewarded by one hand gliding down, cupping his throat, and contracting in a cutting, admonishing squeeze. “You know better,” he snarls, slowly tightening his grip. Sparks swim at the edges of Stanley’s vision as he takes ahold of himself. </p><p>Mr. Des Voeux laughs, delighted. “Slut,” he pronounces. “I shall talk to Mr. Weekes right away.” And with that, his hands are back in Stanley’s hair and he’s pistoning his hips against the tall, stern-featured man’s face. Messy, noisy—he whines as his pleasure escalates like a queen cat in heat and the quicker he thrusts the more Stanley’s jaw aches. He’s being used now, the soaked sear of his mouth a proxy for whatever it is Des Voeux truly wants. But that’s fine because he is imagining himself kneeling at that hole in the wall, an impatient queue formed on the other side. Holes worn in his tailored trousers, his knees beneath aching. His belly brimful, sloshing with seed already. Not to mention gobbets of it drying on his cheek, across his nose. And behind him, bracing him with a hand in his hair, is Des Voeux. His other idly toying with his spent prick. <i>Look at you,</i> he’d coo, <i>Whole at last.</i></p><p>With a low moan around Des Voeux’s cock he spends, looking up at Des Voeux as he does so. So he sees. That he is happy at last. He knows there’s wonder in his eyes, gratitude. Des Voeux’s lip lifts in a sneer. “Slut,” he says again. “Disgusting fucking slut, spending from a prick down your throat—tall and talk so smart—but just a sad slut in the end, aren’t you, a hole—“ Violently he wrenches Stanley off of him and his hand flies to his prick, stutteringly working the scant length of it while with the other he holds the doctor steady, his lips parted softly, panting, waiting to receive what’s due him.</p>
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